Pride

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  They denounced the state- church as worldly and corrupt, and its ministers as mercenaries. They were charged in turn with pharisaical pride, with revolutionary and socialistic tendencies. They were cruelly persecuted by imprisonment, exile, torture, fire and sword, and almost totally suppressed in Protestant as well as in Roman Catholic countries. The age was not ripe for unlimited religious liberty and congregational self-government. The Anabaptists perished bravely as martyrs of conscience.123 Zwingli took essentially, but quite independently, the same position towards the Radicals as Luther did in his controversy with Carlstadt, Münzer, and Hübmaier.124 Luther, on the contrary, radically misunderstood Zwingli by confounding him with Carlstadt and the Radicals. Zwingli was in his way just as conservative and churchly as the Saxon Reformer. He defended and preserved the state-church, or the people’s church, against a small fraction of sectaries and separatists who threatened its dissolution. But his position was more difficult. He was much less influenced by tradition, and further removed from Romanism. He himself aimed from the start at a thorough, practical purification of church life, and so far agreed with the Radicals. Moreover, he doubted for a while the expediency (not the right) of infant baptism, and deemed it better to put off the sacrament to years of discretion.125 He rejected the Roman doctrine of the necessity of baptism for salvation and the damnation of unbaptized infants dying in infancy. He understood the passage, Mark 16:16, "He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved," as applying only to adults who have heard the gospel and can believe, but not to children. On maturer reflection he modified his views. He learned from experience that it was impossible to realize an ideal church of believers, and stopped with what was attainable. As to infant baptism, he became convinced of its expediency in Christian families. He defended it with the analogy of circumcision in the Old Testament (Col. 2:11), with the comprehensiveness of the New Covenant, which embraces whole families and nations, and with the command of Christ, "Suffer little children to come unto Me," from which he inferred that he who refuses children to be baptized prevents them from coming to Christ. He also appealed to 1 Cor. 7:14, which implies the church-membership of the children of Christian parents, and to the examples of family baptisms in Acts 16:33, 18:8, and 1 Cor. 1:16. The Radical movement began in Zurich in 1523, and lasted till 1532.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  All schools of Lutheran divines appeal to his authority: the extreme orthodox, who out-Luther Luther in devotion to the letter; the moderate or middle party, who adhere only to the substance of his teaching; and the rationalists, who reject his creed, but regard him as the standard-bearer of the freedom of private judgment and dissent from all authority.996 His real strength lies in his German writings, which created the modern High-German book-language, and went right to the heart of the people. His greatest production is a translation,—the German Bible. Italians, Spaniards, and Frenchmen, who knew him only from his Latin books, received a very feeble idea of his power, and could not understand the secret of his influence.997 The contemptuous judgments of Pope Leo, Cardinal Cajetan, Aleander, and Emperor Charles, echo the sentiments of their nations, and re-appear again and again among modern writers of the Latin races and the Romish faith. Nevertheless, Martin Luther’s influence extends far beyond the limits of his native land. He belongs to the church and the world. Luther has written his own biography, as well as the early history of the German Reformation, in his numerous letters, without a thought of their publication. He lays himself open before the world without reservation. He was the frankest and most outspoken of men, and swayed by the impulse of the moment, without regard to logical consistency or fear of consequences. His faults as well as his virtues lay on the surface of his German works. He infused into them his intense personality to a degree which hardly finds a parallel except in the Epistles of the Apostle Paul. He knew himself very well. A high sense of his calling and a deep sense of personal unworthiness are inseparably combined in his self-estimate. He was conscious of his prophetic and apostolic mission in republishing the primitive gospel for the German people; and yet he wrote to his wife not to be concerned about him, for God could make a dozen Luthers at any time. In his last will and testament (Jan. 6, 1542) he calls himself "a man well known in heaven, on earth, and in hell," but also "a poor, miserable, unworthy sinner," to whom "God, the Father of all mercies, has intrusted the gospel of His dear Son, and made him a teacher of His truth in spite of the Pope, the Emperor, and the Devil." He signs himself, in that characteristic document, "God’s notary and witness in His gospel." One of his last words was, "We are beggars." And in the preface of the first collected edition of his works, he expresses a wish that they might all perish, and God’s Word alone be read. Luther was a genuine man of the people, rooted and grounded in rustic soil, but looking boldly and trustingly to heaven with the everlasting gospel in his hand. He was a plebeian, without a drop of patrician blood, and never ashamed of his lowly origin.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  FROM FRANCE TO SWITZERLAND. § 69. Calvin’s Youth and Training. Calvini Opera, vol. XXI. (1879).—On Noyon and the family of Calvin, Jacques Le Vasseur (Dr. of theology, canon and dean of the cathedral of Noyon): Annales de l’église cathédrale de Noyon. Paris, 1633, 2 vols. 4°.—Jacques Desmay(Dr. of the Sorbonne and vicar-general of the diocese of Rouen): Remarques sur la vie de Jean Calvin tirées des Registres de Noyon, lieu de sa naissance. Rouen, 1621. Thomas M’Crie (d. 1835): The Early Years of Calvin. A Fragment. 1509–1536. Ed. by William Ferguson. Edinburgh, 1880 (199 pp.). A posthumous work of the learned biographer of Knox and Melville. Abel Lefranc: La Jeunesse de Calvin. Paris (33 rue de Seine), 228 pp. Comp. the biographies of Calvin by Henry, large work, vol. I. chs. I.–VIII. (small ed. 1846, pp. 12–29); Dyer (1850), pp. 4–10; Stähelin (1862) I. 3–12; *Kampschulte (1869), I. 221–225. "As David was taken from the sheepfold and elevated to the rank of supreme authority; so God having taken me from my originally obscure and humble condition, has reckoned me worthy of being invested with the honorable office of a preacher and minister of the gospel. When I was yet a very little boy, my father had destined me for the study of theology. But afterwards, when he considered that the legal profession commonly raised those who follow it, to wealth, this prospect induced him suddenly to change his purpose. Thus it came to pass, that I was withdrawn from the study of philosophy and was put to the study of law. To this pursuit I endeavored faithfully to apply myself, in obedience to the will of my father; but God, by the secret guidance of his providence, at length gave a different direction to my course. And first, since I was too obstinately devoted to the superstitions of popery to be easily extricated from so profound an abyss of mire, God by a sudden conversion subdued and brought my mind to a teachable frame, which was more burdened in such matters than might have been expected from one at my early period of life. Having thus received some taste and knowledge of true godliness, I was immediately inflamed with so intense a desire to make progress therein, that though I did not altogether leave off other studies, I yet pursued them with less ardor."380 This is the meagre account which Calvin himself incidentally gives of his youth and conversion, in the Preface to his Commentary on the Psalms, when speaking of the life of David, in which he read his own spiritual experience. Only once more he alludes, very briefly, to his change of religion. In his Answer to Cardinal Sadoletus, he assures him that he did not consult his temporal interest when he left the papal party.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  The letters of Calvin from 1530 to 1532, chiefly addressed to his fellow-student, François Daniel of Orleans, edited by Jules Bonnet, in the Edinburgh ed. of Calvin’s Letters, I. 3 sqq.; Herminjard, II. 278 sqq.; Opera, X. Part II. 3 sqq. His first letter to Daniel is dated "Melliani, 8 Idus Septembr.," and is put by Herminjard and Reuss in the year 1530 (not 1529). Mellianum is Meillant, south of Bourges (and not to be confounded with Meaux, as is done in the Edinburgh edition). Comp. Beza-Colladon, in Op. XXI. 54 sqq., 121 sqq. L. Bonnet: É tudes sur Calvin, in the "Revue Chrétienne "for 1855. —Kampschulte, I. 226– 240;M’Crie, 12–28;Lefranc, 72–108. Calvin received the best education—in the humanities, law, philosophy, and theology—which France at that time could give. He studied successively in the three leading universities of Orleans, Bourges, and Paris, from 1528 to 1533, first for the priesthood, then, at the wish of his father, for the legal profession, which promised a more prosperous career. After his father’s death, he turned again with double zeal to the study of the humanities, and at last to theology. He made such progress in learning that he occasionally supplied the place of the professors. He was considered a doctor rather than an auditor.398 Years afterwards, the memory of his prolonged night studies survived in Orleans and Bourges. By his excessive industry he stored his memory with valuable information, but undermined his health, and became a victim to headache, dyspepsia, and insomnia, of which he suffered more or less during his subsequent life.399 While he avoided the noisy excitements and dissipations of student life, he devoted his leisure to the duties and enjoyments of friendship with like-minded fellow-students. Among them were three young lawyers, Duchemin, Connan, and François Daniel, who felt the need of a reformation and favored progress, but remained in the old Church. His letters from that period are brief and terse; they reveal a love of order and punctuality, and a conscientious regard for little as well as great things, but not a trace of opposition to the traditional faith. His principal teacher in Greek and Hebrew was Melchior Volmar (Wolmar), a German humanist of Rottweil, a pupil of Lefèvre, and successively professor in the universities of Orleans and Bourges, and, at last, at Tübingen, where he died in 1561. He openly sympathized with the Lutheran Reformation, and may have exerted some influence upon his pupil in this direction, but we have no authentic information about it.400 Calvin was very intimate with him,

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  § 146. "The Restitution of Christianity." During his sojourn at Vienne, Servetus prepared his chief theological work under the title, "The Restitution of Christianity." He must have finished the greater part of it in manuscript as early as 1546, seven years before its publication in print; for in that year, as we have seen, he sent a copy to Calvin, which he tried to get back to make some corrections, but Calvin had sent it to Viret at Lausanne, where it was detained. It was afterwards used at the trial and ordered by the Council of Geneva to be burnt at the stake, together with the printed volume.1086 The proud title indicates the pretentious and radical character of the book. It was chosen, probably, with reference to Calvin’s, Institution of the Christian Religion." In opposition to the great Reformer he claimed to be a Restorer. The Hebrew motto on the title-page was taken from Dan. 12:1: "And at that time shall Michael stand up, the great prince;" the Greek motto from Rev. 12:7: "And there was war in heaven," which is followed by the words, "Michael and his angels going forth to war with the dragon; and the dragon warred, and his angels; and they prevailed not, neither was their place found any more in heaven. And the great dragon was cast down, the old serpent, he that is called the Devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world." The identity of the Christian name of the author with the name of the archangel is significant. Servetus fancied that the great battle with Antichrist was near at hand or had already begun, and that he was one of Michael’s warriors, if not Michael himself.1087 His "Restitution of Christianity" was a manifesto of war. The woman in the twelfth chapter of Revelation he understood to be the true Church; her child, whom God saves, is the Christian faith; the great red dragon with seven heads and horns is the pope of Rome, the Antichrist predicted by Daniel, Paul, and John. At the time of Constantine and the Council of Nicaea, which divided the one God into three parts, the dragon began to drive the true Church into the wilderness, and retained his power for twelve hundred and sixty prophetic days or years; but now his reign is approaching to a close. He was fully conscious of a divine mission to overthrow the tyranny of the papal and Protestant Antichrist, and to restore Christianity to its primitive purity. "The task we have undertaken," he says in the preface, "is sublime in majesty, easy in perspicuity, and certain in demonstration; for it is no less than to make God known in his substantial manifestation by the Word and his divine communication by the Spirit, both comprised in Christ alone, through whom alone do we plainly discern how the deity of the Word and the Spirit may be apprehended in man ... .

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Que de fades plaisanteries ne s’est-on pas permises sur l’esprit genevois! et Genève est devenue un foyer de lumières et d’émancipation intellectuelle, même pour ses détracteurs." Marc-Monnier. Marc-Monnier was born in Florence of French parents, 1829, distinguished as a poet and historian, professor of literature in the University of Geneva, and died 1885. His "La Renaissance de Dante à Luther" (1884) was crowned by the French Academy.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Calvin could not always carry out his views, and acted on the principle to tolerate what he could not abolish.709 It was only after his final victory over the Libertines in 1555 that the Council conceded to the Consistory the undisputed power of excommunication.710 From these facts we may judge with what right Calvin has so often been called "the Pope of Geneva," mostly by way of reproach.711 As far as the designation is true, it is an involuntary tribute to his genius and character. For he had no material support, and he never used his influence for gain or personal ends. The Genevese knew him well and obeyed him freely. § 106. Calvin’s Theory of Discipline. Discipline is so important an element in Calvin’s Church polity, that it must be more fully considered. Discipline was the cause of his expulsion from Geneva, the basis of his flourishing French congregation at Strassburg, the chief reason for his recall, the condition of his acceptance, the struggle and triumph of his life, and the secret of his moral influence to this day. His rigorous discipline, based on his rigorous creed, educated the heroic French, Dutch, English, Scotch, and American Puritans (using this word in a wider sense for strict Calvinists). It fortified them for their trials and persecutions, and made them promoters of civil and religious liberty. The severity of the system has passed away, even in Geneva, Scotland, and New England, but the result remains in the power of self-government, the capacity for organization, the order and practical efficiency which characterizes the Reformed Churches in Europe and America. Calvin’s great aim was to realize the purity and holiness of the Church as far as human weakness will permit. He kept constantly in view the ideal of "a Church without spot or wrinkle or blemish," which Paul describes in the Epistle to the Ephesians 5:27. He wanted every Christian to be consistent with his profession, to show his faith by good works, and to strive to be perfect as our Father in heaven is perfect. He was the only one among the Reformers who attempted and who measurably carried out this sublime idea in a whole community.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  more young men, whom he kept in his house and employed as clerks. When unwell he dictated from his bed. He had an amazing power for work notwithstanding his feeble health. When interrupted in dictation, he could at once resume work at the point where he left off.643 He indulged in no recreation except a quarter or half an hour’s walk in his room or garden after meals, and an occasional game of quoits or la clef with intimate friends. He allowed himself very little sleep, and for at least ten years he took but one meal a day, alleging his bad digestion.644 No wonder that he undermined his health, and suffered of headache, ague, dyspepsia, and other bodily infirmities which terminated in a premature death. Luther and Zwingli were as indefatigable workers as Calvin, but they had an abundance of flesh and blood, and enjoyed better health. Luther liked to play with his children, and to entertain his friends with his humorous table-talk. Zwingli also found recreation in poetry and music, and played on several instruments. A few years before his death, Calvin was compelled to speak of his work in self-defence against the calumnies of an ungrateful student and amanuensis, François Baudouin, a native of Arras, who ran away with some of Calvin’s papers, turned a Romanist, and publicly abused his benefactor. "I will not," he says, "enumerate the pleasures, conveniences, and riches I have renounced for Christ. I will only say that, had I the disposition of Baudouin, it would not have been very difficult for me to procure those things which he has always sought in vain, and which he now but too greedily gloats upon. But let that pass. Content with my humble fortune, my attention to frugality has prevented me from being a burden to anybody. I remain tranquil in my station, and have even given up a part of the moderate salary assigned to me, instead of asking for any increase. I devote all my care, labor, and study not only to the service of this Church, to which I am peculiarly bound, but to the assistance of all the Churches by every means in my power. I so discharge my office of a teacher, that no ambition may appear in my extreme faithfulness and diligence. I devour numerous griefs, and endure the rudeness of many; but my liberty is uncontrolled by the power of any man. I do not indulge the great by flattery; I fear not to give offence. No prosperity has hitherto inflated me; whilst I have intrepidly borne the many severe storms by which I have been tossed, till by the singular mercy of God I emerged from them.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  When Calvin charged him with pantheism, Servetus restated his view in these words: "God is in all things by essence, presence, and power, and himself sustains all things."1114 Calvin admitted this, but denied the inference that the substantial Deity is in all creatures, and, as the latter confessed before the judges, even in the pavement on which they stand, and in the devils.1115 In his last reply to Calvin he tells him: "With Simon Magus you shut up God in a corner; I say, that he is all in all things; all beings are sustained in God."1116 He frequently refers with approval to Plato and the NeoPlatonists (Plotin, Jamblichus, Proclus, Porphyry).1117 But his views differ from the ordinary pantheism. He substitutes for a cosmopantheism a Christopantheism. Instead of saying, The world is the great God, he says, Christ is the great God.1118 By Christ, however, he means only the ideal Christ; for he denied the eternity of the real Christ. 4. Anthropology and Soteriology.1119 Servetus was called a Pelagian by Calvin. This is true only with some qualifications. He denied absolute predestination and the slavery of the human will, as taught first by all the Reformers. He admitted the fall of Adam in consequence of the temptation by the devil, and he admitted also hereditary sin (which Pelagius denied), but not hereditary guilt. Hereditary sin is only a disease for which the child is not responsible. (This was also the view of Zwingli.) There is no guilt without knowledge of good and evil.1120 Actual transgression is not possible before the time of age and responsibility, that is, about the twentieth year.1121 He infers this from such passages as Ex. 30:14; 38:26; Num. 14:29; 32:11; Deut. 1:39. The serpent has entered human flesh and taken possession of it. There is a thorn in the flesh, a law of the members antagonistic to the law of God; but this does not condemn infants, nor is it taken away in baptism (as the Catholics hold), for it dwells even in saints, and the conflict between the spirit and the serpent goes on through life.1122 But Christ offers his help to all, even to infants and their angels.1123 In the fallen state man has still a free-will, reason, and conscience, which connect him with the divine grace. Man is still the image of God. Hence the punishment of murder, which is an attack upon the divine majesty in man (Gen. 9:6). Every man is enlightened by the Logos (John 1:17). We are of divine origin (Acts 17:29). The doctrine of the, slavery of the human will is a great fallacy (magna fallacia), and turns divine grace into a pure machine. It makes men idle, and neglect prayer, fasting, and almsgiving. God is free himself and gives freedom to every man, and his grace works freely in man.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  Gagging and shaking, I shoveled a second helping of stew—onions and all—into my mouth, down my gullet, and in the pockets of my cheeks. It was done. Mary Catherine’s stew was gone. As I finished the last bite, I sped to the bathroom. Locking the door behind me, I heaved up the still unchewed onions, the thick gravy, the potatoes and carrots, flushing them down the toilet. From the faucet I filled my cupped hands with water to rinse out my mouth. I patted my face dry and returned to my place at the table next to Mary Catherine. She gave me a silent look of gratitude with a feeble smile. I felt victorious. We had won the battle that day. But what would tomorrow bring? I was sure my parents knew nothing about Mary Catherine’s eating problem. The Big Sisters and Brothers sat at the far end of the refectory, out of earshot and view of the children’s tables. What I wasn’t sure about was what would happen if I told them. Could they help her? They were no longer in charge of her, my brother, or me. Would I get into trouble if I spoke to them about it? I didn’t have the courage to dare. * * * I was about seven years old, just a year after the separation, when “pilgrimages” became part of our religious life. On the first Saturday of each month, the thirteen oldest children—we ranged in age from Mariam, who was now ten, to the youngest, who had recently turned five—made an all-morning trip outside our enclosure to visit one of the many parish churches in Boston. Initially, the idea seemed exciting—an opportunity to see the real world. But the reality was a far cry from the vision that danced in my head. These excursions were designed as a religious mission—to defy the Catholic authorities in the diocese of Boston who had brought about Father’s excommunication. By marching into parish churches and singing hymns, we were showing the world that we were indeed still Catholics, excommunicated or not. When word spread of our monthly escapade, Archbishop Cushing’s office notified the local parishes to be on the lookout for us. One sunny Saturday, the thirteen of us, chaperoned by Sister Maria Crucis and chauffeured by two of the Big Brothers, arrived midmorning at a nearly empty church. As we gathered in the vestibule, I was fascinated by the sunlight reflected in myriad colors through the stained glass windows and I breathed in the smell of the incense that hung in the air. We marched two by two in silence up the aisle, and when we reached the sanctuary, Sister Maria Crucis lined us up in front of the Communion rail, instructing us to kneel down. Dressed identically in our blue and white uniforms and with our hair in two long braids, there was no mistaking who we were—“Feeneyites,” the disparaging term the press used to describe us.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  A surge of adrenaline came over me as I silently gloated on my defiance. This was my decision to be here on out-of-bounds territory. I was coming to attend Midnight Mass, and she couldn’t stop me. She wouldn’t dare. However, when it came time to join the community in the line to receive Communion, I found myself gripped by that all-too-familiar sense of panic, one I had experienced so many times over the past decade. Should I slip out and return to St. Joseph’s House without taking Communion? The line was forming—I had to decide. What if Father refuses to serve me Communion? The ignominy of that scene would be unbearable. What will Sister Catherine do when she sees me? I resorted to prayer: Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I need your help . The line was moving forward, and I was in it. There was no turning back now. A clammy dampness spread across my hands, my neck, and my cheeks, and my knees shook like castanets as I neared the altar. Then I knelt down and waited for my turn to receive Communion. Don’t let Father skip over me, please, I prayed silently as he slowly made his way toward me. I crossed my hands on my chest, feeling the pounding of my heart inside. Then Father laid the host on my tongue. Before I could stand up, I felt his hand on my head, a soft, silent blessing that seemed to say, “God loves you.” My tension evaporated, replaced by an aura of calm. I had come to God, and He had not rejected me. I rose and walked in procession past Sister Catherine and the long pew of Big Sisters, past the spot where I’d been sitting, out of the chapel and into the wintry December air. In the midnight darkness, I made my way to St. Joseph’s House, feeling triumphant. I had conquered my fear. No one would intimidate me again. And ten hours later, when Father celebrated the Christmas morning mass, I was there in the chapel again, this time unafraid, uncowed, emboldened. Returning to St. Joseph’s House for Christmas breakfast, I was astounded to see half a dozen beautifully wrapped and ribboned presents under the tree. “They’re for you,” my mother said as we sat down to a feast she had prepared. For me? I thought. Sister Elizabeth Ann got these for me? Weeks earlier, I had tried to stop thinking about the fact that I wouldn’t get any Christmas presents. Since that first Christmas in Still River when Baby Jesus (whom I never believed in) brought us stockings full of gifts, I had reveled in opening presents—the mere act of untying ribbons and unwrapping paper never ceased to fill me with pleasure. After breakfast, I opened my gifts with Sister Elizabeth Ann—a pink sweater set, blouses, chocolate turtles with a note of Merry Christmas from my grandparents, and a small box in which there was a gold ring set with three small pearls.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  —Jesus Christ Superstar, Jacques Brel Is Alive and Well and Living in Paris, Hair, The Fantasticks—and the scores of top ten singles—“(The Lights Went Out in) Massachusetts,” “In the Ghetto,” “Crimson and Clover”—at the same time delving deep into my studies, writing papers long into the wee hours of the morning, and trekking into the financial district of Boston to open the office well before the partners could shake themselves into cognizance after a martini-laden evening that would soon be followed by a three-martini lunch. But I was respectful of the two men who ran the office, and while I was a neophyte in the world of finance, it was evident to me that they were not only hardworking but also successful. It was not lost on me that, despite their stature within the office, they were always courteous and made me feel like a member of their team. When I found myself with time on my hands, I’d bounce into their office and ask them if there wasn’t something I could do—anything. Before long, I was running errands for them all over town, a welcome diversion from sitting at the front desk and answering the telephone. I had been employed for eight months, when, at yearend, the partners invited me into their wood-paneled office and presented me with a $1500 bonus check. I was speechless—that was almost half of what I had made since I came to the firm. But equally as rewarding was the realization that these two men, who seemed bigger than life to me, were appreciative of my work. One day, not long after the bonus surprise, the two partners once again called me into their office. “We’d like you to do us a favor,” they said. They had been working on a deal, they explained, that was closing at the end of the week, and they needed me to go to New York to collect $5 million in checks from five separate investors. “Here’s a ticket to LaGuardia Airport on the shuttle for tomorrow morning, and a list of the places you need to go. A car and driver will take you to each of the destinations.” Me? Collect $5 million? In New York? On my own? I can do it, and they know I can. As I took the subway home that evening, I reveled in the realization that I, the receptionist, was selected over the half-dozen secretaries whose responsibilities and income were well above mine.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  The Center had, in a way, been a proving ground, particularly during the years of the court case when I had been perspicacious enough to realize that the very existence of the Center’s school rested on my shoulders. Rather than find the challenge frightening, I thrived on the pressure that acted like adrenaline. Once out in the world, what I lacked in knowledge and sophistication, I attempted to make up for with will power. The status of ingénue did not inhibit my drive. I entered the jungle of Wall Street at a time when professional women were almost an anomaly in the industry, and was fortunate to have had an array of mentors (all of them men) throughout my advancing career. Their guidance was sometimes direct but more often subtle, and perhaps their greatest value was inspiring me to play a similar role to young women (and men) in their own careers as mine was maturing. The glass ceiling was real, and I was aware that my drive and energy were at times a detriment to my advancement—the same work ethic in male counterparts was treated as leadership and rewarded. But resentment was a waste of energy and could only detract from the exhilaration I experienced in the charged world of investing. So, I gave myself the same advice on more than a few occasions when I knew I had been denied a promotion I deserved: You have two options. You can quit and go somewhere else, or you can prove them wrong. In all cases, I chose the latter, and never with regret. Around my fortieth birthday, my husband and I were having dinner in Manhattan and I let the words spill out without premeditation. It was almost as though I were being led by my guardian angel. “I don’t want to have a successful career at the risk of not having any children.” He was silent. It was an odd moment, because in our five years of marriage we had managed to elude a serious discussion about having children of our own. His three children, by now attending college or having graduated, were the focus of his energy, and I played my part as a supportive stepmother. He seemed content; I was not. But it was only a matter of days before he jumped on board and for the next four years we moved heaven and earth, engaging the most renowned specialists to bring to fruition what had been my, and now became our, dream. It wasn’t without its moments of grief with unsuccessful attempts at pregnancy. But there

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  But I was respectful of the two men who ran the office, and while I was a neophyte in the world of finance, it was evident to me that they were not only hardworking but also successful. It was not lost on me that, despite their stature within the office, they were always courteous and made me feel like a member of their team. When I found myself with time on my hands, I’d bounce into their office and ask them if there wasn’t something I could do—anything. Before long, I was running errands for them all over town, a welcome diversion from sitting at the front desk and answering the telephone. I had been employed for eight months, when, at yearend, the partners invited me into their wood-paneled office and presented me with a $1500 bonus check. I was speechless—that was almost half of what I had made since I came to the firm. But equally as rewarding was the realization that these two men, who seemed bigger than life to me, were appreciative of my work. One day, not long after the bonus surprise, the two partners once again called me into their office. “We’d like you to do us a favor,” they said. They had been working on a deal, they explained, that was closing at the end of the week, and they needed me to go to New York to collect $5 million in checks from five separate investors. “Here’s a ticket to LaGuardia Airport on the shuttle for tomorrow morning, and a list of the places you need to go. A car and driver will take you to each of the destinations.” Me? Collect $5 million? In New York? On my own? I can do it, and they know I can . As I took the subway home that evening, I reveled in the realization that I, the receptionist, was selected over the half-dozen secretaries whose responsibilities and income were well above mine. The chauffeured limousine was awaiting me at LaGuardia, and for the next few hours, I went from office to office. The last appointment of the day was at the country estate of an elderly man, Mr. Rosenberg. He greeted me at the door, his butler supporting his frail frame as he reached his hand out to me. “Come in,” he said, “please join me for tea.” “Thank you,” I replied instinctively, “I’d love to.” I was brought back to the days in Still River when I was nine years old and the Thursday afternoon tea parties over which Sister Catherine presided. I noted the difference—on this occasion, I was being served rather than serving. Mr. Rosenberg inquired about my interests, and I felt that stab of panic grip my stomach. Dear God, please don’t let him ask me about where I grew up . What would a Jewish man say if he knew I was a Feeneyite?

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  Long into the night, after the rule called for lights out, I remained in the common room, studying Virgil’s Aeneid and doing practice exams for the upcoming achievement tests in Latin and chemistry. On the night before the exams, I woke with chills and a fever, and the next morning I hid my 103-degree fever from Sister Colette and set off with Sister Ann Mary and two of my senior classmates in a driving blizzard. An hour later, we skidded to a stop in front of Abbot Academy and joined a phalanx of teenage girls bundled up in colorful scarves, ski pants, boots, and bulky down jackets. The three of us, in long black coats, looked more nineteenth than twentieth century. But, unlike that day at Groton, today I didn’t care what anyone thought of me. I was on a mission, sick or not. Too ill to eat, I sat shivering in my coat as I pored over the multiple-choice questions on the chemistry test and fought back waves of nausea. When it came time for the Latin test in the afternoon, I ploughed through the grammar—it was child’s play. Then came the long passage for translation. It was by Livy, an author I’d never read before. I’d been hoping that it might be Virgil, whom I could read as though it were English. At least it wasn’t Cicero , I thought to myself. I despised his paragraph-long sentences. Glancing over the page, I started to relax. It’s all about war, I thought, harking back to Caesar and the Gallic Wars. There’s only so much you can write on this subject. I entered my Latin comfort zone, and the passage unfolded. 47 Interview 1966 S ister Ann Mary was beaming as she approached me in the study hall. “Sister Anastasia, dear,” she started, her mellifluous voice a balm in the sea of turbulence that was my daily emotion. “The admissions office at Vassar would like to have an interview with you.” Vassar! I conjured up the image I’d imagined many times: a bucolic campus with stately brick mansions covered in ivy, amidst rolling hills. Now I would get to see one of the Seven Sisters with my own eyes! Sister Ann Mary went on. “Sister Catherine has said that traveling to the campus in Poughkeepsie is too long a trip. So we’ve arranged for you to have your interview in Worcester, at the home of one of the alumnae. It’s often done that way when applicants can’t get to the college.” Foiled again. For my interview in Worcester, I was provided with some “worldly” accessories to go with my modest garb. They were hardly fashion statements: cream-colored pumps with sensible heels, a matching beret-style hat, and white cotton gloves. Over my wrist, a pocketbook hung on a small chain; it was empty.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  Thirty-nine children provided a nearly limitless source of free labor, and for hours each day, from June till September, we could be seen in the fields on our knees weeding and picking strawberries, potatoes, string beans, and corn. As we swatted away the endless reign of terror from deerflies, horseflies, and mosquitoes, one of the Angels would stand at the end of one of the long rows reading aloud to us stories from the lives of the saints. A midday swimming break in the spring-fed watering hole that Sister Catherine had constructed the year after we moved to Still River was a blessed relief. Each summer also brought with it a challenge—a project hatched by Sister Catherine. One year it might be clearing the brush from acres of land to increase the pastures for our growing herds. Another time we built hermitages, in the image of the early saints who chose to leave society and retire into the desert. This summer we undertook to build a fieldstone chicken coop under the supervision of the Big Sisters. At twenty by forty feet and ten feet high, its construction required an enormous effort. Gathering the building stones entailed dismantling the generations-old stone walls that ran through our property. Despite the backbreaking nature of the work, lugging boulders and rocks to the site, I reveled in the experience, envisioning myself as a frontier woman, a pioneer of sorts, as I learned how to mix cement and use a plumb bob to ensure that the walls would be straight. Recreation that summer included our first horseback riding lessons. As Little Sisters, we were required to ride sidesaddle, while the Little Brothers had both English and western saddles. I didn’t take naturally to horses, but my interest in riding was augmented by our riding instructor, Brother Dominic Maria. Before joining the Center, he had been Temple Morgan (related to the wealthy Astors and Morgans). He’d gone to Groton School and then Harvard College, where he was a member of the prestigious Porcellian Club. Raised on a stately horse farm in Maryland, he was an excellent rider. Until that summer, I’d barely noticed Brother Dominic Maria. But when he took my hands to show me how to hold the reins, I suddenly became aware of him in a different way. At six foot two, rugged and wiry, with jet-black hair and deep brown eyes, he was nothing like Brother Sebastian, my first crush of a year earlier, who was short and delicate looking, played the cello, and did indoor kinds of things like arranging flowers and writing poems. I didn’t understand my

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  I loved smoking after a meal, first thing in the morning, right before bed. In high school, I had to hide my smoking from faculty members, so I would walk downtown between classes and smoke behind the storefronts of Water Street, looking out onto the murky Exeter River. During those quiet moments down on the water, sitting on gravel and dirt, surrounded by abandoned cigarette butts and beer cans and who knows what else, I felt like a rebel. I loved that feeling, that I was interesting enough to break rules, to believe rules did not apply to me. Like most smokers, I developed elaborate practices for hiding evidence from people who might frown upon the habit—namely, my parents. I usually had an assortment of breath mints, gum, and the like on my person. If I was in a car, I would roll all the windows down as I drove, trying to convince myself that this would air me out. It didn’t take long for me to develop a pack-a-day habit, and sure, my lungs ached when I walked up stairs and sometimes I woke up coughing, and all my clothes reeked of stale smoke and the habit was becoming prohibitively expensive, but I was cool, and I was willing to make a few sacrifices to be cool in at least one small way. 22In the after, I turned to food, but there were other complicating factors. I was never athletic, even when I was slender. I was a child of the suburbs, so my parents enrolled me and my brothers in all manner of sports. Though they were both athletic, I never really excelled at any of the sports I tried, despite dutifully going to practice. In soccer, I was a goalie. To this day, my family loves to recount the story of me sitting near the goalpost, picking dandelions in the middle of a game. I do not recall this, but it doesn’t surprise me that the game held little interest for me. Flowers are pretty and soccer games are long and boring, especially when children, barely cognizant of the rules or the strategy of the game, are playing. When I played softball, I was the catcher, but I was afraid of the ball, how it raced toward me with such force and velocity. I did everything in my power to avoid that ball, which was not at all conducive to my mastering that position. I also had no interest in running around the bases. My ideal version of the game would have had me hit the ball, have someone else run around the bases for me, and never have to play when the opposing team was at bat.

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  At some point, I played basketball, but I wasn’t tall yet—the height would come much later, toward the end of my teens—so I had no natural advantage and was not at all adept at making baskets or defending opponents or doing anything required of someone on a basketball court. Again, I had no interest in running up and down the court. The uniforms were not flattering. My favorite position was scorekeeper. I was very good at flipping numbers over each time a new basket was scored. In school, we played dodgeball and tetherball. We did the presidential fitness challenge and I finished the running portion last nearly every year—a mile felt like it was a marathon. In high school, sports were a significant and mandatory part of the curriculum, which was not ideal for me. I rowed crew and hated the old creaky barge of a boat we used. I played field hockey and was more interested in the merits of my field hockey stick as a weapon. Lacrosse simply made no sense to me. Ice hockey was a nightmare—spending so much time in frigid temperatures, trying to balance on two narrow blades while also basically playing soccer on ice with a small puck and awkward hockey sticks. I quickly concluded that I was allergic to sports. I still hold fast to this conclusion. I was, however, a decent swimmer. I loved the water, the freedom of moving through it, feeling weightless. I loved being able to do things with my body in water that would never be possible on land. I even enjoyed the smell of chlorine. I once set a school record for the fifty-yard freestyle. To be clear, this was in the sixth grade, but I still feel a small rush of accomplishment at the memory because in water, using my muscles and my lungs, I was capable and strong and free. My brothers, far more athletic, both took to soccer, my middle brother going so far as to play professionally for several years. I envied their palpable enjoyment of the sport, of athleticism, but I did not really covet that enjoyment. I’ve always been a woman of contradiction. My true loves were and still are books and writing stories and daydreaming. Sports were merely a distraction keeping me from what I really wanted to do.

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  My first few tattoos were small, tentative. With each successive one, the ink has gotten bigger, spread wider across my skin. I love the act of getting a tattoo. It’s not so much about the design as it is the experience of being marked. I love watching the artist set up the workspace, ink, needles, razor. With my tattoos, I get to say, these are choices I make for my body, with full-throated consent. This is how I mark myself. This is how I take my body back. While I was in Lake Tahoe in 2014, teaching at a brief residency MFA program, I got a new tattoo, my first one in years. Before I got that tattoo, I was sitting at a fire by a lake with the writers Colum McCann, Josh Weil, and Randa Jarrar. This isn’t name-dropping. That is simply who was there because we were all teaching in the same program. Colum asked me, “So why the tattoos?” with his lilting accent and bright eyes. This is a question I get asked a lot. It’s a bit invasive, but you invite such invasion when you mark yourself openly with dark ink. People want to know why. We want to transgress boundaries. I include myself in this. I don’t think we can help it. I told Colum a version of the truth of why I mark my body like this, about what it means to have at least some measure of control over my skin. Here, in the middle of my life, I would do things differently if I had to do it all again, but I would still have tattoos. Now and again, I get the urge for a new tattoo. I get the urge to feel connected to my body in a way I am rarely allowed. I get the urge to be touched in that very specific way, the artist holding some part of my body, their hand sheathed in latex while they use this tool, this weapon really, forcing a series of needles into my skin over and over again, the pliant flesh becoming more and more tender. There is a certain amount of submission in receiving a tattoo, so of course I’m very much into that controlled surrender. I love the submission of turning my body over to this stranger for hours. I love the pain, which isn’t excruciating but is incredibly, infuriatingly persistent, accompanied by the endless whine of the tattoo gun, marking me forever. This guy who tattooed me in Tahoe was all about asserting his dominance. He made it clear that he was an alpha male. As he worked me over, he literally said, “I am an alpha male,” and it took all my self-control not to roll my eyes.

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  But I also like myself, my personality, my weirdness, my sense of humor, my wild and deep romantic streak, how I love, how I write, my kindness and my mean streak. It is only now, in my forties, that I am able to admit that I like myself, even though I am nagged by this suspicion that I shouldn’t. For so long, I gave in to my self-loathing. I refused to allow myself the simple pleasure of accepting who I am and how I live and love and think and see the world. But then, I got older and I cared less about what other people think. I got older and realized I was exhausted by all my self-loathing and that I was hating myself, in part, because I assumed that’s what other people expected from me, as if my self-hatred was the price I needed to pay for living in an overweight body. It was much, much easier to just try and shut out all of that noise, and to try and forgive myself for the mistakes I made in high school and college and throughout my twenties, to have some empathy for why I made those mistakes. I don’t want to change who I am. I want to change how I look. On my better days, when I feel up to the fight, I want to change how this world responds to how I look because intellectually I know my body is not the real problem. On bad days, though, I forget how to separate my personality, the heart of who I am, from my body. I forget how to shield myself from the cruelties of the world. IV42I hesitate to write about fat bodies and my fat body especially. I know that to be frank about my body makes some people uncomfortable. It makes me uncomfortable too. I have been accused of being full of self-loathing and of being fat-phobic. There is truth to the former accusation and I reject the latter. I do, however, live in a world where the open hatred of fat people is vigorously tolerated and encouraged. I am a product of my environment. Oftentimes, the people who I make uncomfortable by admitting that I don’t love being fat are what I like to call Lane Bryant fat. They can still buy clothes at stores like Lane Bryant, which offers sizes up to 26/28. They weigh 150 or 200 pounds less than I do. They know some of the challenges of being fat, but they don’t know the challenges of being very fat. To be clear, the fat acceptance movement is important, affirming, and profoundly necessary, but I also believe that part of fat acceptance is accepting that some of us struggle with body image and haven’t reached a place of peace and unconditional self-acceptance.